The Stuff of Heroes.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 4, 22 January 1913, Page 42

The Stuff of Heroes.

By

C. G. D. ROBERTS.

Author of “The Backwoodsman/* “Kings in Exile, ” &*c<

(AU Rights Reserved )

''T'X R- PETER DUBOFF, known also I 1 in his own land as Peter IvanoJ vitch, was a failure —a failure ■s and dishonoured. He admitted as much, to himself, without reserve. He had set his hand to a terrible task. Freely, deliberately, solemnly, believing himself consecrated to the task, and under forfeit of his life if he should fail, he had undertaken it. At the last, the crucial moment, to his own stupefaction of amazement, not his hand but his heart had failed him. From the consequences of this failure he had fled, across half a continent and the ocean, to hide himself in the remote little fishing village of Pratt’s Harbour, on the Labrador Coast. When he remembered it all—and the memory, was one of undimming vividness, bitten as if by acid into brain and nerve —sometimes he would flush and then grow cold with shame, possessed ;by long-inherited faith in an implacable code. But at other times, seeing from another point of view, his heart would warm with joy, and would thank God passionately for that failure and that dishonour.

It had happened in Kiev;' and in the following fashion had it come about. An aristocrat by birth, but an ardent intellectual and progressive by conviction, Peter Duboff had embraced- the doetrines of the advanced revolutionaries. Seeing the miseries in which his Holy Russia groaned and wallowed, the fanaticism of his zeal for her regeneration could not tolerate slow or moderate methods. The centuries of cruelty and oppression must be expiated with blood. Murder, for the cause, he taught himself to regard as a blessed and holy thing. For only by such means, he believed, could the hearts of tyrants be opened to admit the fear of God. When, therefore, the of the Revolutionary Council fell bri hitn, for the great task of the moment, -he was glad. The iron Somaliev, Governor of Kiev, -was to be blown to pieces 'before the gates of his palace,',

Duboff was • ready for his orders. In premonition of some such great business being committed to his care, months earlier he had pent his only child, a boy of eight years old, to a school In England; and such of his property as he had not devoted to the Cause he had put into jEjiglish securities. The child's future' would be safe.' There was nothing more to tie*him. His love for the motherless boy .was for the moment withered in the white flames Of his exaltation. " ' ' ' ’’

The good faith of Peter Duboff was above suspicion, even in the eyes of his fellow fanatics, whose every breath was one of conspiracy and distrust. Nevertheless, the Red Committee took no chances, even with Duboff. His every move was decreed for him. He was bound by dreadful oaths, which seemed to him, as he took them, childishly futile in the face of his ardour. And he was menaced with the fate which would fall upon him and his child if he should play false —menaces which it seemed not worth his while to hear.

Somaliev was from the North—a stranger to Kiev. He did not knoweven his own palace as welj as he should have known it. But the Committee knew it very; well indeed. And so it r-.uue about, that just, at the hour when the governor, who was punctuality itself. and heedless of all precaution, should come driving up to his gates, Dubofl, with bls deadly picric bomb (in the form of a book) under his arm, camo loitering through the shrubbery behind the iron railings. The fact that the explosion would probably’ destroy not only Hoinaliev's coachman and footman, but • n uncertain number of bystanders as well, seemed to Duboff’s zeal but a neces■ary and unimportant incident in the disciplining of tyrants.

He was as cold as steel. Even when, (t a distance of perhaps a hundred yards from the gate, the coach broka down through a wheel coming off, hq

disturbed. He saw the tall, whitehaired, uniformed figure of Somaliev disengage itself from the ruin and stride impatiently towards the gate. Somaliev was angry at the accident, which showed gross negligence in his coach-house. His grey eyes, under the shaggy brows, gleamed fiercely. His hawk nose in the air, -he brushed against a gaping child, and fairly knocked it over. The child began to cry. Somaliev noticed it, stopped, whirled, and looked down at it with softening eyes, men he picked it up tenderly, stood it on its feet, made an awkward attempt to brush it with his big, gauntletted hands, thrust a bright coin into its grimy little paw, and came on towards .the gate, his mouth puckering whimsically under the grey moustache. Something seemed to dick in Duboff’s heart, and his eyes saw differently in that instant. Somaliev was no longer an abstraction of evil, but a human being—a brother man —one of those very brothers over whom Duboff’s heart so warmly, if a trifle inconsistently, was wont to yars. He saw the bewildered child, the innocently curious bystanders, the anxiously sweating coachman—all in a moment, perhaps to be -bleeding and shrieking victims of the bomb which he must throw. A sickness of longing for his own child oame over him. Who was he, he asked himself suddenly, to execute justice—or was it injustice? An icy sweat ‘broke out upon him as he confronted the startling question. Melting back into the shrubbery, he vanished into an alley of the palace, and so, a studious figure with book under arm, disappeared by ways that the governor knew not of.

Within a half hour Duboff was on his way to the border. - The Committee, apprised of the accident to Somaliev’s coach, had no suspicions. They waited confidently to receive Duboff’s report that night. With such a start, and pitting his keen intelligence against theirs, Duboff succeeded in reaching England. Snatching up Iris child he made his way north into Scotland, and took passage on a tramp steamer for Newfoundland. A coasting schooner carried him from St. John’s up to Labrador, and when he settled himself in Pratt’s Harbour he felt that his trail had been successfully covered.

Pratt’s Harbour, suspicious of strangers, was at first none too hospitable. The village folk were for the most part occupied with fishing, but they were also, in t chastened way,'wreckers. They knew better than to seek to mislead a storm-driven ship; -but if a wreck took place on their wild coast, they sa-w the hand of Providence in it, and returned thanks, and devoted more effort to me saving of the cargo than of the crew and passengers. The latter might get ashore if God willed. But Duboff, tending their sick for no fee, nursing them more tenderly and patiently than their wives and mothers could, feeding their hungry, lending with open hand to their needy, soon gained an ascendancy over their wild imaginations. With his deep and dream-filled eyes, his kindly mouth, his grave and pensive smile, his abundant hair and softly curling brown beard, he reminded them of the picture of Christ in the village church. He brought them good luck, for when he went fishing with them, the boat that carried him always made a good haul, So it came about, in time, that he. was even able to revolutionise their very primitive attitude toward shipwrecks. Under his exhortations, instructions, and leadership, Instead of waiting hopefully for the shipwrecked unfortunates to drown, they became daring and devoted life-savers, somewhat to the detriment of their pockets, indeed, but to the incalculable advantage of their morals and their consciences.

An in this way Duboff, in the saving of many lives, made reparation in his heart for the 'lives which he had had it in his heart to destroy. For nearly three years Duboff had lived and toiled in Pratt’s Harbour —and no ope jn pratt'i Harbour ever suspected

that he was either a failure or dishonoured. It is to be feared they would not have understood, indeed, had he explained it to them ever so clearly. With his worje, with the education of his boy, with his wild dashes forth into the storm when some doomed ship lay grinding on the outer reefs, he found life full enough and grew almost to reconciliation with himself.

Then a day came that shattered his peace.

The bleak coast was in battle with a yelling, black nor-easter. A small brig up from St. John’s, was staggering before it, in despairing effort to make for Pratt’s Harbour. The awful trap of the outer reefs she passed in safety, but was carried too far south. Then came the ter-, rific struggle to beat back to the entrance proper. The whole village was out to watch her as she fought her way up into the wind, literally inch by inch. But they did not look on as in the old days, with cold greed in their hearts.' Two boat crews of picked men, with Duboff at their head, stood 'by, ready to launch their sturdy whale-boats. And besides Duboff, clutching his hand and gazing out whitefaced upon the devouring tumult, stood his boy, with yellow-brown hair blown backward.

The long-drawn struggle was an agony. The watchers, affected with Duboff’s own spirit, agonized in sympathy, their salty and rugged faces drawn, their sinews straining with suspense. At last, as she neared the point, it was seen that she was too close in. She could not clear it. The crowd groaned hoarsely, and some woman sobbed. Duboff caught his boy up into his arms, holding him close in brief farewell. The ship, in desperation, let go both anchors. They caught, held—and the hawsers parted like hay. The fated vessel fell off, and was flung broadside on to the toothed ledge which fringe the base of the Gull Head Rock.

Even while the boats were being launched into the comparatively quiet water behind the Head, she broke in two; and the after portion, where most of the crew had gathered, simply crumbled into matchwood. In the forepart, now plainly visible, now hidden by sheets of spray, remained.two figures, clinging to the stays. One was a member of the crew. The other, in black, with, long black hair and beard, was as evidently a passenger. A crashing wave tore the seaman from his hold, but, instead of sweeping him overboard, slammed him down against the stanchions, and by some watery caprice left him there, stunned and helpless, for the next wave to finish. With astounding agility the bearded passenger pounced down from his refuge, heaved up the limp body, braced it between himself and the stays, and succeeded in holding it against the next smothering onslaught. The watchers on the shore cheered hoarsely, certain of the women bursting into frantic tears.

Just then the boats appeared, thrusting out from behind the Point and plunging into the full fury of the storm. Their headway stopped, as if their prows were buffeted back by titanic hands. They mounted and fell, but seemed, with all their violent movement, to make no progress, like rocking-horses. Yet the distance they had to traverse to reach the wreck was little more than a couple of hundred yards. And now began two dreadful and terrific struggles. The watchers on shore, half-blinded by the driven salt, and leaning aslant against the ponderous onrush of the wind, turned their anxious eyes now to the one, now to the other, and held their breaths, and gasped broken prayers. Abreast the Point the boats wrestled doggedly, now gaining a few yards by a rush

forward in the trough of calm between two combers, now beaten back, slowly and inexorably. But here bn the wreck was the more gigantic struggle. The man in the stays, the lone black figure looking so infinitely small, struggled to hold the body of the seaman against all the forces of the storm. It seemed to the watchers impossible, inconceivable that he should prevail. Yet, from moment to moment, he did prevail. And as wave after wave receded, the long-haired figure was seen still grasping, still sheltering bis helpless burden; till presently the crowd forgot to cheer, to weep, to pray, and could only stare awe-stricken. At last, —after what may have been hours, for . none could take account of time in watching that strife—in a halflull .of the hurricane the boats won nearer. But it was only to find that, as the wreck lay, fairly lifted over and into a cup in the reef, no effective approach was possible. To come close enough to east a line to ths mag in the rigging

would have meant inevitable destruction for both boats. Then the gale burst forth again in full fury, and the boats had all they could do to hold themselves off those thundering cataracts of the. ledges.

As if awakened by the momentary respite, the fragment of wreck now yielded! under the fresh onslaught, and toppled over upon its side till the broken mast lay out at'such a slant that the 'crests of the seas swept it to the tip. With incredible tenacity the black figure ini the stays still held on, and still gripped its helpless burden. Little by little it worked its way out toward the end of the mast, which almost overhung the deep water on the inner slope of the ledge.

At the sight of such dauntless courage and fidelity Duboff forgot ail odds. Whether the thing were possible or hot, he would do it. He would rescue the black, figure with the burden or go down with them. Fixing the end of a line about his waist he ordered his boat around to the other side of the' ledge. The other boat followed. They could, approach no nearer from this side, for. the gigantic suction of each wave as it went by opened an abyss to the very roots of the ledge, and the following inrush was like a maelstrom. Just outside its clutches hung the boats, now skied, now, wallowing in the troughs. . And then Duboff, plunging from the prow of his boat, swam in.

The instant that fie plunged, the mant on the wreck gave a great shout, which made itself heard even above the thunder, of the breakers; and with a colossal obstinacy of defiance to all fate lie passed' a bight of line about his burden and secured it to his own waist. From the boats, and from the watchers on slfore, rose cries of mingled admiration and protest. “Drop him!” “He’s dead!” “It's no use!” “He can't save you both!” “For God's sake, let him go!” Bitt all alike were swept away by; the wind —and would have been equally, idle had they reached their goal, for the man was driink with the rage of thel struggle for the life which he had sefi himself to save. His own was clean forgotten. .. .

But Duboff, battling desperately but coolly in the tortured seas, saw, and understood.

At length, borne almost beneath the projecting end of the mast, he saved himself, by a tremendous backward thrust, from being dashed upon the ledge; At the moment, calculating it justly, the. stranger dropped with his burden. Duboff had just time to observe, from his aimless floundering, that he knew nothing of the water, when a receding surge sucked him away. Duboff dived, and with his left hand caught him by the back of the collar, holding him rigidly; at arm's length. Then eame a few moments of choking anguish. . The men of Duboff’s boat, realising that with such a load to carry) it was impossible-for the leader to• swinS among those insane convulsions of the. surges, set themselves to pulling him ill without regard to immediate cense; quences. Time was everything. But it was not a simple matter to drag in that load with the contorted seas wrenching it in one direction even while hurling the boat in the other. All but two of the crew had to keeg sweating for their lives at the oars, to hold the boat off the ledges. At one moment the line would slacken so suddenly that the man hauling on it would fall backwards, and Duboff and his load would be dashed almost upon the boat. At the next, the line would go taut withi a sickening jerk, and its burden- would be dragged under, and held under,- till Duboff thought his lungs would burst. But at last, in a deep trough he was pulled up to -the boat-side, and lifted in over the gunwale with his charges'. He was all but spent, and could only lie gasping and spitting on the bottom. The bearded stranger was unconscious his eyes sunken far back into their haggard and sallow sockets from the strain of his superhuman struggle. But thq sailor for whose life he had so striven was as dead as a stone. His back had been broken across the stanchions. To Duboff’s house the stranger was taken, still unconscious, and put to bed —■ Duboff himself, his giant frame like; tempered steel, none the worse for the adventure. , In. the stranger’s pockets Duboff found no murk of identification, no cl lie even; His watch—stopped by the salt water—/ was English. His clothes appeared t<r have been purchased in St. John’s. Hist, pocket knife and pencil were German. liifl

automatic revolver was American. But the man himself, by the east of his features, his colouring, the texture of his skin, a certain wistfulness in the lines of his moutih,* Duboff decoded to 'be Slavic. He guessed him to be a fellow Russian; and his exile heart went out to the unconscious face on his pillow. When at last the stranger awoke it Was to an obstinate silence, apparently to no more than a semi-unconsciousness. Duboff spoke to him in English, French, German, Norwegian, Polish and lastly Russian, but obtained not so much as the flicker of an eyelid to show that he understood. From this state of collapse, so unlike the indomitable force which he had displayed on the day of the wreck, the stranger passed into a violent pneuimonia, which bade fair to do what storm Und surge had so signally faiiled to accomplish.

■For d'ays he hung between life and aeath, as precariously balanced there in .the guarded quiet of the doctor’s room, as on the reeling fragment of wreck, amid the thunder of the hurricane. But sleepless care and devotion pulled him through. There was Duboff’s boy to help him in the struggle—a vigilant land (thoughtful watcher by the bedside. There was Duboff’s old housekeeper, Mrs. McGarrigle, to take her turn at the task. 'And Duboff wrestled with death for 'him as he himself had wrestled with the surges for the stricken sailor.

There came a morning when the sick man opened sane, inquiring eyes, and stared about the clean, homely little room with its one window wide open to (the sharp sea air. They were deep-set teyes, melancholy and visionary. For some minutes they were obviously puzzled, as if their owner could not make out how he came to be in these Bunroundings. The unplastered walls, decorated with prints from illustrated journals, the sturdy serviceable furniture, most of it obviously home-made, the spotless coarse linen, the bright coverlet of patchwork, .all were scrutinised an turn. And then the low ceiling, of Sight, clean spruce, traversed by sawn and planed scantlings. At last memory came back into the questioning eyes, and the man realised that he must be in some remote fishing village of the Labrador coast. Laboriously, step by step, he groped his way through the storm, the .•wreck, the desperate struggle, up to tue moment when he liad let himself drop (with his burden from tire sloping must, and been grasped, in the suffocating vortex of those great surges, by some strong swimmer who had come miraculously to save him. He'was very brave, ithat man, he thought; The door opened. A short, broad-built old woman in blue-grey homespun stepped softly .but briskly into the room and approached the bedside with a cup and spoon in her hand. Her eyes met bis, and at the new look in them she gave a little exclamation of delight. He spoke to her — but it -was in a tongue she could not understand; and her wrinkled, ruddy old face clouded again, as she jumped to the conclusion that his mind was wandering. Arrah, now, ’ she answered crooningly, as to a baby, “lie aisy wid ye, an’ don’t t-hry to talk. Take this, now, loike a little man.” And seating herself on the chair by the bedside she attempted to give him something from the cup. But the sick man pushed her hand aside—abruptly, as the sick will. ‘•What place is this? Where am I?” he demanded in clear English. Mrs. McCarrigle looked surprised.

“Why, shure, ye’re at Pratt’s Harbour,” she replied. “An’ where else would ye be, if not at the bottom of the say?” The stranger mused a moment, still motioning away the cup. ■ “And whose house is this?” he asked. “The docthor’s, av coarse!” came the answer.

What doctor’s ?” went on the stranger. Mrs. McCarrigle’s face showed a degree of astonishment that was not far from disapproval. The idea of any human being having to ask what doctor’s! “Why, Docthor Peter’s—whose else’s could it be?—what hauled ye out o’ the Bay.”

“Ah, yes!” murmured the stranger, remembering that grip of salvation. "But jvho is Doctor Peter?”

Mrs. McCarrigle was grieved at such ignorance. A sudden sound of loud sizzling came from the kitchen. She jumped up, set down the cup and spoon upon the Chair, and exclaimed warmly: “Shure an’ he’s an angel o’ light, that’s *vh-hat he is, an’ ye’d ought to know it, Dorr. An' there's the pot a-bilin* over.” She bustled from the room, closing the door behind her; and the sick man lay

back with his eyes upon the ceiling, pondering. It troubled him .that the man’s name should be Peter.

Some five minutes later the door openeil again. This time the visitor was a bright faced, slim boy, with large grey eyes and longish, tumbled, yellow-brown hair. He beamed frankly on the sick man, seated himself on the edge of the bed with a-businesslike air, and announced, “You’re better. I’m so glad.” Then he took up the cup and spoon which Mrs. McCarrigle had abandoned, and decreed in a quaint voice of authority, “You must be good and take this at once. Father said we must be very particular about it while he was away.” The sick man smiled in his ragged beard, took the dose obediently, and tried to-say “thank you,” but was interrupted by the boy wiping his lips carefully with a handkerchief.

“There,” said the child, with an air of official satisfaction, “now you must go to sleep. And I think you will lie much better when my father gets back. If you want me just ring this little bell.” “But tell me, who is your father ?” demanded the sick man eagerly. The boy turned at the door. “Why, don’t you know ?” he asked innocently. .“He is Doctor Peter Duboff, who saved you. But you really must not talk, or you’ll be having a temperature again, and that’s very bad for you, you know.” He closed the door firmly; and the sick man turned over on his pillow, with his face to the wall. When Duboff returned that evening, from a sick visit in a neighbouring cove, he found that the stranger, though clearly convalescent, had relapsed into his old silence. Not a word could he persuade from those close, dark-bearded lips. And no more would the sick man speak with Mrs. McCarrigle or the boy, beyond an occasional “Please,” or “thank you,” lowtoned but courteous. But Duboff, apparently unconscious of this strange reserve, was unwearied, as ever, in his administration and his thoughtful care.

A few days later, coming in late in the afternoon, when a red-glory of sunset was flooding across the stranger’s bed, he said, cheerfully: “You are getting on so well, my friend, that I think you may sit up a while to-morrow.”

“Thank you,” said the stranger, without looking at him. This was the first time he had opened his mouth in Duboff’s hearing, and Duboff was delighted. Seating himself by the bed, he began to talk in Russian. “Forgive me,” said he, “if I speak in what 1 imagine to be your own tongue. Ido not ask any questions. I don't want to pry into your affaire. But I am a Russian; I think that you are also, and my heart goes out to a fellow countryman. It is a great joy to me to speak once more the speech of my own people.”

“I am a Russian. I was beginning to forget it —-Russia seems so very far off. I must not forget I am a Russian,” muttered the stranger. “I knew it,” cried Duboff warmly, appearing not to notice anything enigmatic in the sick man’s reply. He half stretched forth his hand, but at once withdrew it. Then he went on to talk, as if just for the joy of feeling the old music on his lips. He told of the life Of the fisherfolk in this forgotten corner of the world, of his work among them, both ashore and afloat, of the wild tempests that harried the coasts, of the wrecks, of the vast spaces of solitude in behind the hills, of the freedom, the bigness, and the blessed peace. Then he got up and said: “Good-night, my friend. I'll not see you till tomorrow, as 1 have an all-night case over in Sandy Cove. But my son and Mrs. McCarrigle will look after you. And to-morrow you shall feel yourself a man again.”

As Duboff had prophesied, on the morrow the sick man felt himself so much stronger 'Uiat he was eager to be up; buj; while being dressed, at times he seemed to shrink from the Doctor’s touch. At length it was accomplished, and Duboff, half-carrying him, got him out into'a great, padded chair on the porch, where he could drench himself in the sun, and look out upon the now smiling waters of the harbour. The grey, straggling village, presided over by its white-washed church, lay outspread beneath him. The siin gleamed on the sails of half a dozen boats just entering the harbour. The stranger’s eyes swept the scene with an intensity of' interest that was almost ferocious. They rested at last on the figure of Duboff’s boy, at some childish play at the

foot of the garden. He heard Mrs. McCarrigle rattling dishes in the kitchen, and nil at once he felt ridiculously hungry. Suddenly Duboff took a revolver from his pocket, and handed it to him. “Here’s your gun, friend,” said he carelessly. “It was badly rusted by the salt water; but I think I’ve got it into pretty good shape for you. It’s a beautiful weapon.” The sick man took it, and opened the chamber.

“Where are the cartridges?” he asked, apparently forgetting to say, “Thank you.”

Duboff laughed softly. “I think they were done for. But I can let you have all yoiU want. The gun is of the same calibre as my own.” The sick man made as if to drop the weapon, but changed his mind, and slipped .it into his pocket.

“Thank you,” said he. “I shall want only one.”

“One cartridge won’t go far!” re marked the doctor.

“It will,” contradicted the stranger. “It will carry me a long, long journey,— Peter Ivanovitch.”

As he spoke the name, he turned his head, and for the first time looked Duboff straight in the eyes. Duboff returned the gaze with kindly concern, and apparently saw nothing strange in the fact that his guest was aware of his full name.

“If you want to use it on yourself,” he answered, “I’m afraid I’ll have to withdraw my offer.”

The sick man continued to eye him piercingly.

“My name,” said he, “is Sergius Milikov—Serge Nikolaievitch—of the Central Committee, Third Division. You must ’have forgotten much in three years, Peter Ivanovitch, or you would know the only alternative. If that one cartridge is not for me —it is for the man who broke h’is oath that day in Kiev.” Duboff laughed gently. Never before had he realised how far away he had grown from his old self. At last, he was free of the very last shreds of doubt. The intensity of his guest’s earnestness seemed unreal, impossible to him. “No. Serge Nikolaievitch, I cannot agree to that either,” he answered cheerfully, as if the proposition were one of the most ordinary in the world.

“It must be you, or me!” persisted the sick man, almost pleadingly now. “It cannot be you, of course. I cannot lift my hand against my benefactor, my saviour, my protector. But I can save my honour by paying the price. I shall have to go over. Give me that one cartridge, Peter Ivanovitch.” “No, of course it cannot be I,” said Duboff musingly. “That’s out of the question. I have too much to do here. 1 am needed. But neither can it be you. You are too good a man to be spared, ‘Serge Nikolaievitoh. You are needed, too.” Then his voice changed, grew solemn, and rang with authority. “I gave you your life, when it was done, quite surely done. I have a claim upon it; and I commit it to your keeping.” The sick man dropped the question for the moment. “Where is the sailor I saved?” he asked, a sudden light in his eyes. Duboff pointed to the little churchyard.

“You did all man could,” said lie. “But you did not save him, except from a sea grave. He was dead when we lifted him into the boat.”

An expression of the keenest disappointment swept over Milikov’s face. “Of course,” he exclaimed bitterly, “I had to fail there, too. At every point I fail. lam no good. But you can keep your cartridges, Peter Ivanovitch. I will not shoot myself. That has always seemed to me cowardly. But I will go back and give myself up to the Committee, and they will execute me. I will save my honour.” “Yes,” said Duboff. “In effect, for that curious rag, you will betray me! No! I think you must not do that, my friend.”

The sick man wrung his gaunt fingers. “I am hedged about on every side!” lie cried. “What am I to do?”

“Ab you see,” said Duboff ve,ry quietly, “there is much, very much, to be done for our brothers right here. Stay with me and help me to do it.” “But I have given my word. And I am a gentleman!” said Milikov. “True,” agreed Dr. Peter simply.

There was silence between them for several minutes. The boy laughed at the foot of the garden. Again came a Tattle of duties from the sanctum of Mrs.' McCarrigle.

“But you also, you were a gentleman,*’ said the sick man, pondering the .words as he spoke them. “True,” agreed Duboff again. He was trying to remember how he had once felt on the subject. “Yet, if you are a gentleman no longer,” went on Milikov, “it is strange that lam unable to feel that you have deteriorated in any sense. It is possible, perhaps, that one may do as you have done, and still be a gentleman!” “Indeed!” said Duboff doubtfully. “I wonder. I have thought about that a good deal, when I had time.” “Ah,” cried the other, in a voice of sudden and strong resolution. “I have not thought about it till this moment. Yet I have felt decided. I will stay here with you.” He held out his hand, and Duboff grasped it, “I perceive that it appears to me, in my own heart, nobler and better, and more useful, and at the sume time far more interesting, to save life than to destroy it. I will learn to go out to the wrecks, as you do, and- 1 will try to make up for not having succeeded in saving that poor sailor. Yes, I will stay here, and work with. .you. For I perceive that you and I, Peter Ivanovitch, we are not the stuff of heroes, and we are too old to change.”